240 to 250 feet
by clemonlime
Summary: Foyet would be dead in a matter of hours, and so was his proof that Haley was gone. He'd be absolutely empty without them. Even though people had been there in the room with him, and the man who killed his heart was handcuffed, he still felt vulnerable. Like he could be killed just by how fast his heart was beating.
1. The Bridge

The night was a heavy one. They'd gotten back from interviewing Foyet for one last time before he got the electric chair. Reid had gone with him, of course. There were other people in the room, policemen and guards to make sure nothing went wrong. And nothing did. They asked questions, and Foyet answered them. It was a fairly easy interrogation, they got everything they wanted. Yet Hotch was still hurting.

Foyet would be dead in a matter of hours, and so was his proof that Haley was gone. He'd be absolutely empty without them. Even though people had been there in the room with him, and the man who killed his heart was handcuffed, he still felt vulnerable. Like he could be killed just by how fast his heart was beating. Every smug blink of Foyet was a silent reminder of what he'd done, rubbing his victory in like salt in a wound that would never heal.

The night was heavy because it was humid on top of the bridge in between highway I-90 and I-80, the semi-trucks that passed messing with his balance, almost toppling him over if it hadn't been for his grip on the railing. Twelve at night was the time that only insomniacs looking for distractions and truck drivers were out in their vehicles. Hotch was an outlier. He wasn't sure what his purpose was, but he definitely wanted to be on that bridge, no matter what the outcome would be. If he was supposed to survive, then he'd survive the fall. Whenever that would happen.

A sputtering engine jerked him out of his thoughts. Hotch spun his torso, throwing one of his legs back over the closer slab of concrete, and he looked up through half-closed eyelids just in time to see Reid's busted Volvo Amazon pull up, its front plate bent and its chrome bender dulled by years of neglect and lack of care for appearance. Its owner jumped out of the car, leaving the engine running and stood on the other side of the car like a barrier.

" _Hotch._ "

"I'm not planning on _doing_ anything," the older man said carefully, "I'm just watching."

"Bad decisions often don't require a plan," Reid carefully walked around the car hood with his arms out. "Please don't make me."

"Make you what?" Hotch asked, turning his head back to the road. The light posts flickered, illuminating the fluorescent yellow paint that split the highway below in two.

"Don't make me talk you away from this terrible situation like I'd do with an unsub," he whispered. A semi truck flew past, knocking Reid forward, with a grunt. "Please, Hotch. It doesn't feel right."

Hotch sighed and turned back to look at the scrawny man, half-kneeling on the ground with sad eyes looking upward. "I wasn't going to..."

"You know that wasn't true," Reid pushed himself up, clearing his throat.

The older man shook his head, twisting his body back toward the road twenty feet below. "It didn't really matter." He stared downward, imagining what it would feel like. He knew it wouldn't feel good, most likely hurt a lot unless he dove headfirst. Maybe he'd dive headfirst.

"Corey Smith-Helden," Reid said, his voice breaking as he tried his best to switch into a mode he'd use with psychotic men that saw a way out in suicide. It was hard. But he did it. "He had a history of suicidal thoughts and actions. He dove off of a cliff, drove his car into oncoming traffic and came out both times with minor injuries, and he once walked down into the ocean unaccompanied and tried to drown himself. He knew it wouldn't be possible, but he tried. The pain was too much, and he resorted to using any and all opportunities that had even the slightest probability of death. He was twenty-seven years old. As old as I am now."

Hotch took a deep breath. He couldn't make himself turn around. He knew Reid was crying, and he could feel his own tears threatening to fall. How he had gotten himself into this situation was boggling him.

"On, um... March 31st, 2005, at 5:34 in the afternoon, Corey arrived at the Golden Gate Bridge," Reid said, his voice was rough, now. Full of emotions that Hotch had never heard him express firsthand. "He had no car, and probably took a cab. No one stopped him, he didn't even stop himself. No one stopped him because he never stopped moving. He had a place to be. He had confidence."

The first tear fell, rolling down Hotch's cheek and dropping onto his slacks. The second quickly followed.

"A witness saw him. She reported seeing a man walking on the sidewalk nearest to the traffic lane, who then... who then suddenly turned toward the railing and jumped off. He was dead. He watched the water come nearer and nearer, and he knew he was going to die," Reid stepped closer, his voice growing less consistent as his throat began to close with worry. "He landed feet first. He was bruised over his entire abdomen and midsection, and there were indications of massive internal hemorrhaging and several broken bones. He wasn't dead when the impact came, and he was alive for two minutes and thirteen seconds, bobbing in the water, before his brain gave out from an aneurysm."

Hotch let out a shaky breath. Reid knew his resolve was deteriorating. He wasn't a psychopath. He was a man that was having a bad week. No one was meant to die forever because of a bad week.

"When a person jumps from the Golden Gate Bridge, their body plummets 240 to 250 feet in four seconds, traveling 75 miles per hour, and they hit the water with force enough to equate to two car collisions," Reid gently placed his hand on Hotch's shoulder. "This isn't the Golden Gate bridge. You aren't Corey Smith-Helden. If you do this, you risk paralysis, fractured bones, a functionless digestive system, possible brain damage. You risk your job. And most importantly, you let Foyet win."

That was it. Hotch spun around and tumbled off of the railing as Reid pulled him away, noticing the vulnerability and want to stay alive. Hotch grunted as he hit the ground, landing on the hard ground next to Reid. Another semi zoomed past, blowing Reid's hair from his face.

"He'll never win," Hotch breathed, his hands resting on his stomach as his chest heaved up and down. "I won't let him."

Reid nodded slowly and pushed himself up from the ground. "I'm taking you to Rossi's. He has coffee and alcohol for you."

"Are you going?" The older man mumbled, letting the younger man pull him to his feet.

"No, I don't think so," Reid shrugged and pushed Hotch's shoulders toward his Volvo. "That would be unprofessional. I'm going home."

"But..."

"Get in the car, Hotch," the younger man smiled. "We can talk about this another time, once the words I've thrown at you sink in. Call me in the morning."

Hotch nodded and settled into the passenger seat, closing his eyes. He _survived._


	2. The Thank You

Hotch was in the building before anyone else. He couldn't seem to sleep, eat, or function without something reminding him of the night before. The feeling of teetering on a steel railing, the heavy air threatening to push him down, the sound and pressure of semi-trucks zooming past. The fact that he was going back to work was ridiculous in itself, but if he told anyone... else... they'd suspend him. For a long time. And, besides. He had a doctor's opinion telling him to go back to work. Which was saying something, if that same doctor was the one to talk him off of the railing.

The team filtered through the doors in pairs; Prentiss and JJ, Garcia and Morgan, David and one of the techs he was mentoring. Reid was last, which was a surprise, but he looked like he had a reason. Hotch turned in his chair and parted the blinds even more than they already were, trying to get a makeshift profile. His eyes weren't glazed, but he had pretty prominent dark circles, a pretty contradictory beginning, but Reid always had dark circles. Most likely one of the mysteries of the young doctor.

He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Not because of a one night stand, Hotch noted. Too calm, not enough of a limp. That was assuming, but he figured it was a pretty straight forward assumption. Reid didn't even attempt to cover it up with a cardigan, which touched on his carelessness in his morning routine. Often, Reid's wardrobe was a meticulous creation of his emotion that day. He'd add accessories as needed, sometimes to imply self-consciousness (the purple scarf), or perhaps even quirkiness (the colors of the mismatched socks he wore). But this wasn't on purpose. This was waking up on his couch covered in books and smelling of rivers of coffee to drown the memories of the top of a bridge.

Reid slumped into his chair, but not before casting a nervous glance toward Hotch's office door. He didn't seem to see Hotch peeking through the blinds, which was a lucky development.

It was all a question of when. When was he going to thank him? When would the next case roll in? When and where would be an appropriate atmosphere for a talk like Hotch was preparing? It was all a jumble in Hotch's brain. Even though the haze of Scotch had already dissipated, he felt completely lost. No matter how many case files, technician applications, and field reports he surrounded himself in, he still couldn't shake the image of Reid, his hair whipping around as trucks passed, his eyes and his stance afraid, yet confident and wide. Those clothes he was wearing today. Maybe he was reliving it, just as Hotch was.

"Reid," he found himself standing outside of his door, calling downstairs to the bullpen. Everyone's eyes moved from their work to Hotch, then to Reid, then to each other, like their gaze was the marble in a pinball machine.

The scrawny man almost didn't hear him, but he felt the weight of his coworkers' gaze and looked up instinctively to check on Hotch. But there he was, looking back.

"Oh, yes, sir." He stood quickly, his chair rolling several feet backward. Reid shoved his hands in his pockets and speed-walked up the stairs and into Hotch's office. The older man closed the door and the blinds before turning to his subordinate, who was placed in the middle of the room with an air of expectation around him.

"You can sit," Hotch grumbled as he gravitated to his chair. He pushed the mountains of files to the side to get a pathway to look at the man that saved him. If it was the last thing he'd do, he'd make sure that the small doctor with questionable confidence knew how important he was. "Did you sleep?"

"Yes," Reid said slowly, making sure to carefully pick his words. It was obvious he was attempting to avoid any triggers that Hotch may have had, which was ridiculous, considering the man didn't have clinical depression on that scale. "Rossi told me you slept well."

"I did," Hotch tilted his head down slightly and sighed. "I woke up, too."

Reid grimaced, "You did, and I'm thankful for that. Sir."

Hotch shook his head, amazed by the man that sat before him. "Reid. You saved me last night, yet you still walk into work as if you had nothing to do with it. I'm not saying that you should necessarily dwell on it, but it's definitely a situation and an experience that I think you should think positively of."

The brunette shook his head, his hair splashing against his neck in its delayed swaying. "I just used anecdotes and statistics and facts. I do that all the time. Not only to unsubs. It wasn't normal, sir, but it certainly could be classified as All in A Day's Work." His hands fidgeted in his lap, picking at loose strings in his pant seam.

"That doesn't make it any less significant," Hotch leaned over his desk, trying to capture the attention of Reid, the man who doubted himself in everything he did but had to put that doubt aside because of his line of work. "The day you stop undermining yourself is the day the world gains something more than All in A Day's Work."

Reid shook his head, "Hotch..."

"Corey Smith-Helden," Hotch said, his voice strong. "What about him, what about the words you said right before you pulled me back to Earth?"

"That isn't his name," Reid said softly.

Hotch's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Corey Smith-Helden was a name I used to humanize him," Reid sat up in the chair, finally making complete eye contact. "The family never released a name, so I came up with one. Hyphenated, to show that he had a family at home that loved and cared for him, just like you. The time he arrived at the Golden Gate Bridge was approximately 5:30, but that was on the eye-witnesses account, so it's questionable. I used a time that was odd, to keep you listening. To keep your brain working, to keep your hypothalamus occupied while I attempted to get the gruesome images into your frontal lobe. Gory imagery and words often stick the brain easiest, as do words of love and words that symbolize primal fear. The hemorrhaging was real, very real, the aneurysm wasn't. He didn't die on impact, but he most likely died from the shock. The shock of knowing he was dying. But if I told you that, you'd be able to see through it. I filled in the cracks with bullshit, realistic and human bullshit. You're alive because I lied. The story is true, the numbers and calculations were right. Couldn't bear to exaggerate those, they were too raw. Too beautiful for me to change. Suicidal men of a high ranking need a hook, a story, numbers, and humanization. I took what I knew and lied to you."

Hotch stared at him.

"Never question your heroes," Reid was sinking in on himself. "When I saved you, you probably saw me as some kind of deity, but I'm just... I'm just me. Human, lying me."

"Reid," Hotch stood from his chair, and in an instant, the doctor was lifted by his underarms and squashed into a hug. His eyes widened and he hummed gently, slowly hugging back. "You saved me through tactics you've learned in the job. You used your skills, just like you're expected to, but to an even greater scale. You really are a hero."

Reid's fingers gripped onto the back of Hotch's suit jacket, closing his eyes and allowing the tears to fall. "You almost died. What was I supposed to do?"

"Save me, of course." Hotch began to let go, but Reid held him still.

"Did I?" He whispered. "Did I really save you?"

"Yes, Reid. You saved me."


End file.
